


on and on we're charging to the place so many seek, in perfect synchronicity of which so many speak, and then in sheer abandonment we shatter and explode

by staubfingers



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andres being Andres, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut, oh no there is only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staubfingers/pseuds/staubfingers
Summary: After a heist gone slightly wrong Martín is forced to spend the night with Andrés in a foreign appartment,unfortunately there is only one bed.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 20
Kudos: 139





	on and on we're charging to the place so many seek, in perfect synchronicity of which so many speak, and then in sheer abandonment we shatter and explode

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favourite trope _ever_ and I'm not getting tired of reading about it so it was only a matter of time until I wrote about it, as well.  
> It's porn with the plot only being there to lead up to said porn, Martín is angsty, Andrés is being Andrés, and English is not my first language. Consider yourself warned.  
> Title is from _Turbo Lover_ by _Judas Priest_. Check out the music-video, it's ridiculous.

This is far from the glorious escape they had imagined, and Martín has to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that it's mainly his fault. Stealing jewellery from an old mansion in East Berlin was bound to cause trouble, after all it's in those people's DNA to watch closely what their neighbours are up to and report even the slightest aberration immediately, and he _should_ haven taken that into account.

“Stop moping, it doesn't suit you and ruins my mood,” Andrés notes and even though Martín has his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead of him he can practically _see_ the smirk on the bastard's face.

“I don't get how there is any mood left to ruin,” Martín snarls, “That was _not_ supposed to happen.” 'That' meaning the police suddenly storming in as they were about to leave the house. Thankfully, it were only some boys fresh from the academy, too afraid to pull the trigger when Andrés ran directly at them to tackle one down and use the other's surprise to pull his legs from under him. They had been clever enough to call backup, though, sirens already coming rapidly closer no ten seconds after their heads hit the floor.

“It had been _fun_. Certainly, running through dirty streets wasn't how I pictured this evening to end, but you cannot deny you enjoyed the rush of adrenalin.”

“I definitely _didn't_. We should be on a ferry to Finland right now, drunkly celebrating. Instead I'm driving this stupid car in the middle of fucking no-where, sober and sweaty from all that undignified running.”

Andrés laughs at that, _laughs,_ “I know a small, beautiful village no fifty kilometres from here and there is a place we can stay. Perhaps you will be less unbearable after a a few hours of rest.”

“We should keep driving,” Martín says through gritted teeth.

“We're driving for six hours, we changed cars twice, they won't be able to locate us.”

They argue for the next ten kilometres, and then decide to head to the village since in the end it always results in doing what Andrés wants. After they parked the old VW in a wooded area they get the bags with the jewellery and walk for ten more minutes until they reach a huge and modern farmhouse. “We can't just knock on that door in the middle of the night,” Martín objects again, but just like in the car Andrés ignores it and goes ahead.

No thirty seconds later the door is actually opened by a tiny, wrinkled woman who exclaims, “ _Co za niespodzianka_!” and takes Andrés into a - considering her age - surprisingly tight looking embrace which he returns without any hesitation. When he's released again he starts to explain the reason why they're standing on her doorstep at that unholy hour, at least that's what Martin assumes, he doesn't understand much more than his own name and ' _policja_ '. At some point Andrés hands her two five-hundred euro notes from the emergency envelop Martín made him wear under his clothing despite his initial refusal, and from there it isn't long until they're ushered inside and led upstairs. She unlocks the door to what seems to be a small apartment and hands the keys over to Andrés and then disappears.

“Didn't know you speak Polish,” Martín comments and takes a closer look at where they've ended up: the furniture is old but definitely expansive and solid, the kitchenette is small, yet sufficient, and despite the apartment obviously not being lived-in it's squeaky clean.

“I spent some time with Wislawa in my early twenties,” Andrés says and it's so vague and yet implicatory that Martín can't stop himself from shaking his head in disgust. “Do I want to know?” he mumbles but is saved from the answer by a knock on their door.

It's _Wislawa_ , bright smile on her face - Martín rather not think about where this mouth has been - and two bottles of champagne in her hands. Andrés seemingly thanks her, takes the champagne and locks the door after she has left once again.

“I think you told me you wanted to celebrate,” he muses with a grin that Martín feels himself returning instantly.

Andrés roams the cupboards for the right glasses while Martín spreads their prize on the table, finally able to take an undisturbed look at it. “They are even more beautiful than I thought they were,” he marvels and nearly forgets about the sour taste that their unexpected and hurried escape left in his mouth.

“Indeed,” Andrés agrees, leaning over his shoulder and placing a hand on the small of Martín's back. Unintentionally he leans into the touch.

“If we only-” he begins, but is immediately interrupted, “What did I tell you about moping? Here, take that,” Andrés hands him a glass filled with champagne, “Now, lets drink to this worthwhile night.”

And drinking is what they do. Sitting at the table and admiring these astonishing, tiny diamonds that will bring them a respectable fortune each as soon as they finally reach the buyer in Turku, they go over the evening, and while Martín tries to pinpoint where they went wrong Andrés is not having it, “We're getting our hands on the files when we're back home and _then_ we'll see what we missed and discuss what it means for our next heist.”

 _Their next heist_ , unwillingly Martín feels his breathing hitch upon hearing those words. Ever since he met Andrés for the first time he lives in the fear of the other man finally getting sick of him, of realizing that there is not much Martín has to give him, and hearing him casually talk about _their_ future feels just surreal. “When we're getting back I'll lie in the sun for a few weeks and spend my money on delicious food and obscenely expansive wine.”

“I think this could be arranged,” Andrés smirks.

They empty the first bottle in no time at all, and Martín feels the tension slowly but steadily leaving his body, partly due to the alcohol but mainly to Andrés' close presences. Andrés always has that effect on him, he only needs to open his mouth and speak those clever words of his, brush his fingers against the tiniest patch of skin, or merely _be_ in the same room, and Martín feels immediately grounded. Tonight, it's only amplified by the fact that they nearly got arrested a few hours ago, and with that _separated._ And not just close to that, he realizes with a shudder, never before he had looked into the barrel of a gun which was being pointed at him, at _Andrés._

“I can't believe you slept with _her_ ,” Martín says at some point, already slightly slurring, to get his mind off the terrible memory. 

“I never said that I slept with her,” Andrés objects with a raised eyebrow, sounding amused.

“Sure, you just ' _spent some time with her_ '. You hardly worked here as a farm labourer, did you?”

“Of course not,” Andrés grins, “I met her through a mutual acquaintance, she lend me some money so I could steal a picture from an art gallery I _really_ wanted to have. After that I came back here to take some time off.”

“So you _did_ sleep with her,” Martín groans, and regrets he even asked.

“My, my,” Andrés says and leans over the small table until there are no twenty centimetre between them, “Are you _jealous_?”

“No,” Martín spits out, too fast and too loud, “I'm only shocked by your poor taste. And the fact that you whored yourself out.”

Andrés laughs at the insult and shakes his head, “Don't worry, I paid her back first. It had been a rather short lived affair, as well, she was married at this point after all.”

“You're unbelievable,” Martín says, distracted by Andrés still being so close to him that he feels his breath on his skin whenever he speaks.

“I have to admit it's nothing I would participate in, again. All this secrecy makes it impossible to fulfil your needs. The side-effect of any affair, no matter how appealing the concept appears to be in the beginning, is that you spend the majority of your time together with teaching the other what you like, and when they finally figured out how to satisfy you it's already over.”

Martín swallows at that, his clothing suddenly uncomfortably tight, “So, the alternative is to wed anyone you want to have sex with?” he asks, thinking about the three times Andrés already has been married and the one wife he met himself - and resented - and who thankfully got an 'ex' to her title a few months ago.

“That would be a little bit too drastic, but I don't bother with having sex with strangers, either. It always turns out to be a waste of time.”

Not remembering when he has had sex with a man who was more than a stranger for the last time Martín says, “Well, if it turns out to be a disappointment you can just go for the next one, no money and hours spent on boring dates and pointless chatting, and you get an orgasm out of it anyway.”

Andrés suddenly seems to be even closer, their noses nearly touching, and Martín needs a moment to realize that this time it has been himself who leaned forward. “Some orgasms are worth hours of chatting.”

“Yes,” Martín agrees without quite comprehending what Andrés just said. They're too close, he realizes, so close that their lips are only the length of a finger apart. It would only take the slightest movement for them to touch, he only needs to lean forward a few centimetres and he'll finally know what those lips taste like. Without mulling over it any further he does.

And leaps to his feet, already blushing in shame over what he nearly did. “I'll go grab a shower, I must be smelling from all that running,” he mumbles and walks to the door he assumes leads into the bathroom, fast. Thankfully, he's right and doesn't have to retreated back into the living area just now where Andrés is still sitting, look of shock on his face. Maybe even disgust. The room around Martín is spinning with the effect of the alcohol and the panic over what has happened finally kicking in. Andrés will be _furious._ Sure, he never shied away from touching, but he never left any doubt to his utter straightens. ' _I'm aware of what I am, there is no need for me to experiment,'_ Andrés told him once, and despite not talking about sex directly Martín understood the implied ' _don't hit on me_ ' and he did respect it. _Does._ He wants Andrés, wants everything, wants to be owned, consumed, wants to be _his._ However, if friendship is what he gets than he's perfectly happy to except it. He'll except _anything_ Andrés will give him.

With shaking fingers he takes his clothes off and is only now aware how true his earlier words were; his skin is sticky with sweat, new and old. He steps under the shower-head, turns the water on without any regard to its temperature. After a few seconds of standing there motionless he realizes it's far too cold. He leaves it like that. There is a bottle of nice smelling shower gel standing on the basin, and when he pours it onto his hand he tries to concentrate on how the slippery texture feels against his skin. He'll apologize to Andrés as soon as he leaves the bathroom, he'll explain to him it was only the adrenalin leaving his body that made him lean in too close, that it had been a mistake. And it wouldn't be a complete lie, he usually does go out to fuck someone after a heist, and Andrés knows that – even though he gives Martín unreadable looks through squinted eyes whenever he catches him returning back to their shared place – so it won't be too much of a stretch of the truth. And Andrés will forgive him, he _has to._

When Martín leaves the shower he feels considerably less drunk but just as ashamed and guilty as before. Somehow there are even fresh toothbrushes on the sink and for a moment he wonders whether Wislawa welcomes criminals on the run into her home regularly. He is grateful for it anyway, mainly because it buys him more time. At some point there is no way to delay the inevitable any further, though, and he is just about to get back into his stinky clothing when there is a knock on the door, “Some of my old clothes are still in the closet, I put something onto the bed for you to wear.”

Martín feels his heart sink in relief, not only is Andrés still talking to him, he sounds perfectly normal on top of it. With a sigh he grabs his clothes and leaves the room, only dressed in the towel clasped around his hips. Andrés is leaning against the counter, looking as indifferent as his voice sounded before, and nods to the other door that is now opened, revealing a small room with a large bed. Only now Martín is aware of what he should have seen as soon as he entered the apartment: there are only two other doors, one leading into the bathroom, the other into the _sole_ bedroom.

“There is just one bedroom,” he states the obvious and immediately wants to hit himself.

Surprisingly, Andrés smirks at that, “Don't tell me you're suddenly no longer willing to share a bed with me.”

Indeed, they slept next to each other countless of times during the curse of their friendship, but on every occasion they had been drunk out of their minds, or simply so absorbed into planning another break-in that they fell asleep for a few restless hours, hunched over the papers they were currently studying. However, they never went to bed together consciously.

“Of course not,” Martín says after a few seconds of silence, looking anywhere but at Andrés.

“Good,” he muses, “I'll take a shower as well, and then I'll be with you.” He walks so close by Martín that their fingers brush for the split of a second, and when the door clunks shut behind him Martín feels his shoulders sink in. After taking a deep breath he makes his way into the bedroom where he finds a pair of silky brief on one side of the bed. Nothing more. For a moment he has the mad desire to roam the closet for something else to wear, panicking that this is some kind of test, but then he realizes that he always sleeps dressed in only his underwear and Andrés is simply aware of it.

Nervous like a virgin on her wedding night he lets the towel and clothes fall onto the ground and slips into _Andrés'_ briefs. They're a little too tight and the fact that Andrés once wore them has an unwanted effect on his dick. Shuddering, he lies down under the blanket, pulling his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes, hoping he'll fall asleep before Andrés emerges from the bathroom.

Of course, he isn't that lucky and after a unusual short length of time, at least taking Andrés' hour long nightly ritual into account, Martín hears footsteps coming in. He keeps his eyes shut, doesn't want to see what Andrés is wearing, what he _isn't_ wearing. When he feels the mattress next to him sink in he's positive Andrés believes he already fell asleep, but then a hand lands on his forehead and Martín's opens his eyes.

“You are shivering,” Andrés notes and under the moonlight seeping through the window Martín can see that his brows are slightly furrowed.

He doesn't know what to say to that, he hadn't realized until now, and enjoys the feeling of the warm hand touching his face.

“You should sleep, tomorrow you'll be better.”

Martín nods, not because he believes in it but because he always agrees with Andrés. He closes his eyes again, tries to force his breathing to even out, stretches his legs in order to relax them and does his best to not be disappointed when Andrés ultimately pulls his hand away. Concentrating on calming his body down unfortunately has the side-effect that there isn't any energy left to stop his mind from wandering, and images from the previous hours are slowly taking over. _The realisation that something is wrong, Andrés' concerned face, the fear, the gun, Andrés, the sirens all around them, running and running, the terror of hearing foot steps coming closer, the terror of suddenly not hearing Andrés' steps, shouts, Andrés face, the gun, the gun, the gun_

He opens his eyes again with a sharp intake of air, finds Andrés calm face no meter from his own. “I nearly lost you,” he gasps, stating what clawed on the edges of his mind ever since they left that godforsaken mansion.

“You didn't,” Andrés answers decidedly and opens his eyes as well.

“Yes, I did. You jumped at a cop who pointed a gun at you. A fucking gun! He could have shot you, and from that distance he certainly would have aimed for your stomach or chest. Fuck, how could you have been so stupid!” His voice gets louder with every word, the anger and fear he held back ever since Andrés pulled that stunt finally coming to the surface.

“In your opinion, what was I supposed to do? Stand there and wait for them to handcuff and arrest us? _Then_ you would have lost me.”

“I rather be in prison than watch you die! I wouldn't have survived it, Andrés. I cannot live in a world without you, in a world in which you died through my lacking foresight, I simply cannot,” he shakes his head, feels dangerously close to tears.

“Now, listen to me,” Andrés says with a sharp voice, “I calculated the risk, but those _children_ were already shaking when they told us to turn around, there was _no way_ either of them would have fired their gun. I told you time and time again that there will come a situation like that, no matter how well we're prepared, it was merely inevitable.”

“I was terrified,”Martín admits in a hushed voice, “I still am.”

“There is no reason to. I knew what I was doing and I'm fine.” Andrés places a hand on Martín's shoulder, pulls him closer until they're pressed together. Martín lets him, forgets about his earlier slip, buries his nose into Andrés neck and tangles their legs together. “You're fine,” Andrés whispers, and than he repeats it all over again while Martín does his best to keep the tears that are burning in the corner of his eyes from falling.

They stay like that for a few minutes, and with Martín's calming breathing Andrés stops the soothing stream of words, though his hands keep rubbing slow circles into Martín's back and shoulders. It's warm, and perfect, and Martín enjoys the familiar smell, the contact of skin against skin, and wonders which entity he has to thank for deserving this. He even might have fallen asleep like that if it weren't for his treacherous mind deciding to wander off. At first they're only subconscious thoughts, somewhere in the back of his mind he gets aware of the fact that Andrés is wearing as little clothing as himself, that they're touching head to toe, pressed against each other in _every_ place. Andrés touch has lulled him in such a deep relaxation that he only realizes what an effect those pleasant thoughts and observations have on him when the hands on his back suddenly stop mid-motion.

“I'm sorry,” he says rapidly, already blushing and trying to get as much space between their groins as possible. That was it, he realizes, Andrés had be ready to forget about his earlier fuck-up and instead of being thankful he ruined it. He draws his head back from where it still was nuzzled into Andrés neck, keeping his eyes down, though, “I didn't want to... I wasn't- It's not like you think.” The hands are still on his back, even though not moving, and despite his struggle Martín isn't able to get away.

“So what is it like then?” Andrés asks, looking curious and not revealing any of the anticipated fury.

“The heist, the adrenalin, I'm just... I'm used to getting it out of my system.”

“You mean to get it fucked out of you?” Andrés determines, making Martín shiver.

“Yes, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... it's nothing personal,” he stops in his tracks for a moment, but being held despite his painfully obvious erection poking into Andrés' thigh makes him weirdly daring so he adds, “You know what it's like, you do the same.”

“Not since Elise.” No, Martín realizes, not since the insufferable woman became ex-wife number three, and instead of hearing loud moans every other night there is only silence.

“You should go out more, find someone to go on those dates with,” he states, small grin on his face and finally stopping his efforts to get away while trying to smother the hope that is blossoming in his chest.

“There are easier ways to get something out of your system than dating. Or fucking strangers in dirty bathroom stalls, for that matter.” There is a sharpness in Andrés voice indicating that is meant as an insult, but the forming grin on his lips make it seem more like mockery.

“Oh yes? Tell me about it,” Martín whispers, pictures of Andrés pleasuring himself coming to his mind. Martín would never admit to it out loud, but he spent _hours_ imagining what Andrés would look like falling apart, all of his women naturally excluded from those fantasies, even though it was sometimes Martín himself who's hand and mouth was on Andrés dick. “What are you doing after we stole something and I went out to ' _fuck strangers in a dirty bathroom_ '?”

He's reminded of Andrés' previous talk regarding risks and realizes he took a similar, even though not as potentially lethal one. They're standing at a crossroad, and despite not saying it explicitly Martín revealed his attraction, the yearning for their relationship to take another direction, and it's now on Andrés to take this further or shatter all those dreams Martín only dared to indulge in, in the quiet of his room, drunk and nearly mad with _want_.

Andrés seems to be aware of it, as well, sees right through Martín like he always does, and when he's already certain he will be pushed away after all, be _denied_ , Andrés flips them over, covers Martín's body with his own and grinds his groin down ever so slightly. The moan that slips from Martín's lips is disproportionate to that small movement, but it does make Andrés' grin go even wider.

“What is it that you want to hear? How I pleasure myself? What I'm thinking about while doing it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” it is rather a moan then word and above him Andrés' eyes are glinting. He puts his hand in Andrés hair and resists the urge to pull him down, to claim his lips with his own, afraid to repeat the earlier mistake. So, he lets his hands wander down the strong back instead, stroking over the prominent ribs, enjoying the feeling of the smooth skin under his fingers that he has touched so many times, however only ever fleeting, never daring to linger. When he reaches the waistband of Andrés' brief he stops his motion, awaits to be told off, to be laughed at, but Andrés still looks at him with a grin, almost _hungrily_ , so he dares to push his fingers under the fabric. It's a revelation to finally touch what he stared at every given opportunity, wondering if Andrés' ass feels as tight and perfect as it looks. Turns out it does. He uses the placement of his hands to press their groins closer together, breath hitching when he realizes Andrés is as hard as himself.

“Tell me, what are you thinking about when _you_ pleasure yourself,” Andrés says with a voice that goes straight to Martín's already painful erection.

“You,” he whispers and immediately sees it's what Andrés wanted to hear, “I think about your touch, your lips, your posture, the way you talk to me, your elegant hands.”

Maybe, it's the fading effect of the champagne, or being desperately turned on that makes him so bold, and in the split of a second he pushes Andrés off himself so that he lands with a low _thud_ on his back next to him. He is already opening his mouth, obviously to protest, but Martín doesn't give him a chance to, pulls the briefs down in one swift motion and would have gone further at once if the sight didn't distract him. He has seen Andrés naked on a few occasions, but never when he was turned on, _hard_ , has never seen his dick long, and heavy, and _delicious_ lying on his stomach, slightly twitching with the need to be taken care of.

A wave of want rolls through Martín's body, so unexpectedly intense that he nearly sinks back onto the mattresses himself, boneless. Instead, he props his head in one hand and grazes with the fingers of the other Andrés' cock. “I think about getting my hands on you,” he continues then, hand loosely fisting the erection and moving up and down ever so slowly, “Around your beautiful cock, stroking you, put my mouth on it, swallow you down until I choke and then some more. Let you fuck my mouth. I'll make you lose your mind, coming apart under me.”

He studies Andrés' face while saying this, waits for the anger and disgust that never comes, instead he is still grinning, lazily with heavy lidded eyes. It's all the affirmation Martín needs, so without wasting another moment he leans down, puts his lips around the head of Andrés dick, sucking on it carefully and tasting the slightest hint of precum. He dreamed of doing this ever since they met that fateful night five years ago, drunk in a too loud bar, immediately talking to each other like they were long lost friends, but never in all those years Martín expected it to be _this good._ Andrés' dick has just the right thickness to fill his mouth perfectly, smooth and musty against his tongue, and he feels his whole body burning with the need to have him deeper.

He bobs his head up and down, alternating between sucking carefully and swirling his tongue, every single hitch of Andrés' breathing sending pleasure through his own body, and only when he isn't able to overcome the temptation any second longer he swallows down until his nose is pressed against Andrés pelvis. The cock is slightly too long, Martín already feels his throat cramping around it, and he has to focus on the fantastic feeling of it in order to stop himself from gagging. It has the desired effect, though, since Andrés becomes absolutely _feral._ His hands, that lay by his sides until now, grab Martín's hair, almost painfully, and press him down impossible further. Martín hears a groan and doesn't know whether he or Andrés is making the sound, but he doesn't get any time to think about it since the hand pulls on his hair until his head is lifted a few centimetres and Andrés starts to move his hips.

It's fast and messy, it hurts, and Martín doesn't get enough air at all. It's the best fucking thing ever. He feels so close to coming that he doesn't dare to put his hand on his strained erection, wanting for this to last forever. Andrés seems to have similar thoughts, the vigorous pace of his movements slowly dying down after he abused Martín throat and mouth for the better part of a minute. When he's pulled off Andrés' dick and up to his face Martín gasps for air, hardly able to see anything through the tears clouding his vision, yet he recognizes the satisfied look on Andrés face.

“I don't think it's the only thing you're imagining,” Andrés says and Martín's utterly turned on brain needs a few seconds to understand he's continuing with the conversation he had started prior to fucking Martín's mouth and therefore all sense out of him, “I know you, you can be quite selfish, there is no way you're getting off on the sole thought of satisfying me.”

Martín laughs at that, low and full of disbelieve over what is happening to him, over Andrés lying under him, dick still wet with Martín's saliva, gaze hazy with the same want he himself feels, “What do you want to hear? That I think about you fucking me? Pinning me to a wall, over the papers we're working on, throwing me on a counter, to take me, mark me, make me yours?” He feels the smile leaving his lips, “I want you, Andrés, all of you. I'll take whatever you'll give me, or won't give me.”

“Everything, hm?” Andrés muses and before Martín can do so much more than nod he's flipped over again. This time Andrés settles between his legs, their erections pressing against one another, and Martín curses himself for not taking his own briefs off when he still had the chance to.

Andrés is pressed so close that their mouths are only millimetres apart, and Martín is suddenly so aware of it that everything seems to narrow down to those beautiful lips he can't stop himself from staring at whenever Andrés talks to him and he felt on his face countless of times but never on his own mouth. After everything he has said and done already it doesn't seem to be too daring, so Martín leans in.

As soon as their lips touch it's like sparks ignite, and it's probably rather due to the realization of what he's doing than to the chaste kiss itself. Andrés doesn't seem to have any intention to keep it this way, though, and before Martín has his head completely wrapped around what is happening there is a tongue _devouring_ his mouth. He moans into it, embarrassingly loud, kissing back messy and so full of need that he has to hold onto Andrés' shoulders to ground himself.

“Please,” he mumbles when they separate to pant for air.

“Please, what?” Andrés asks, pressing his groin into Martín's dick which only makes it so much worse.

“Anything,” he answers breathlessly, “I don't care, I just need _more_.”

Andrés places another short kiss onto his lips then he sits down onto his knees between Martín's leg and without any warning he pulls the briefs off and takes a merciless hold of his dick. “Like that?” he asks with a sly smile and squeezes even more.

“Yes,” Martín moans, relishing the pain. Andrés losens his grip then, and starts to move his hand up and down. Even though he's obviously unaccustomed to the angle he learns fast how to move his hand in order to get the loudest noises out of Martín. He is utterly amazed by the fact that it's _Andrés_ who's jerking him off, who's smiling like he enjoys this at least as much, who's own cock is twitching when Martín moans are getting shorter and more desperate. He closes his eyes at this sight, afraid he'll cum like a teenager after a one-minute-handjob since the realization that his _sight_ turns Andrés on is just too much to process.

“Uh-uh, look at me.” Andrés voice pierces through the sound of rushing blood in his ears, and he complies immediately.

“I'll cum if you keep that going,” he groans.

“I thought this is what you wanted,” Andrés smirks and fastens the pace of his hand even more.

“Yes, no, I wa- I don't want this to end,” he admit, sounding desperate even to his own ears, and sits up slightly to put his hands around Andrés neck and pull him down to him. “Not, yet,” he mumbles against Andrés lips. The hand is still fisting his dick, but Andrés thankfully stopped moving it. After Andrés orgasmed he will see clearly again, Martín realizes, whatever spell made him touch Martín in the first place will be broken and they'll be back to how it was. Andrés will say it was a mistake, at the latest by tomorrow morning, and he'll tell Martín to forget it has ever happened. And he'll promise, he'll promise anything to keep Andrés by his side, but he'll never _forget_ how Andrés mouth tastes, how his dick feels against his tongue, how _complete_ he felt in his arms.

“Shh,” Andrés' lips are suddenly on his cheek, then on his forehead, covering the skin with small kisses while he strokes Martín's hair, “It's alright, I'm _here_. I'm not going anywhere.”

For a second Martín is afraid he started crying, fortunately he's only breathing faster while he latches onto Andrés like a dying man. It's embarrassing, really, he should enjoy it, make _Andrés_ enjoy it, and not live with his head in the future. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don't be, _cariño._ I'll go slower.” The endearment makes a shiver run down his spine and when Andrés kisses him, deep and sweet, he tries to focus on that, to not think about what will be in a few minutes or hours, but concentrate on how Andrés' naked skin feels against his own.

Andrés then sits back up, settles into the place between Martín's legs. Apparently, he had enough of stroking Martín's dick, though, since instead of proceeding with it his hand wanders down further, grazes over the balls to his hole, pressing against it slightly. It's so unexpected that Martín lets out a curse before he says, “This is your definition of _slower_?” However, the touch pulling him out of his head, and he feels his breathing finally relax somewhat.

“You only have to say the words and I'll stop,” Andrés states and starts to laugh when Martín bites his bottom-lip instead of letting any kind of word out, “I have thought so. Now, open up.” He pulls the hand away and presses the index- and middle-finger against Martín's lips instead who swallows them down eagerly. He repeats the same motions he did previously on Andrés dick, and taking the smug look on Andrés' face into account he's aware of it.

The fingers are pulled away far too soon, and Martín wants to plead for them to be left there while Andrés does whatever he plans on doing with his other hand, but doesn't dare to. When the wet fingers press against his hole again he nearly forgets about it, anyway, and moans with the feeling of it. “You never did that.” It isn't really a question, however Andrés' sudden forwardness makes him wonder.

“No, at least not with a man,” Andrés agrees and presses the tip of his finger into Martín. It burns and is at the same time so amazing that he thinks he sees stars.

“Then why now?” he gets out when he's somewhat accustomed to the feeling. _Why me?_

“I love to see you come undone,” Andrés grins and fists Martín's erection once again with the other hand, and starts to move it, slow like he promised.

“Oh fuck,” Martín groans when Andrés pushes his whole finger in, moving it at the same pace as his other hand, bringing Martín right back to the point of nearly spilling over.

“I wondered,” Andrés suddenly says after a minute those agonizingly slow, perfect strokes, “When you went out after a heist to get fucked by a stranger, did you think about me?”

“Yes,” Martín moans, not giving a damn about how pathetic it is, “I wanted them to be you. I knew I couldn't have you, but I needed _something_.”

“How did it feel?” Andrés whispers and leans down until his lips nearly graze Martín's ear, hands never stopping, “Settling for those filthy strangers because you thought you would never have me.”

“Degrading,” Martín answers without even thinking about it, and he might have regretted it if Andrés didn't chuckle into his ear like it was _exactly_ what he wanted to hear. He goes back into his sitting position, picks up the pace and as if he just _waited_ for the right moment he presses his finger against Martín's prostate.

“Fuck,” he growls, drops of precum slipping down his dick as the finger goes right back to that spot, “Just fuck me. Please.”

“Unfortunately, we don't have any lube nor condoms,” Andrés says and despite still tormenting Martín with his hands he _does_ look disappointed.

“I don't _care._ Just fuck me dry, take me. Please, please, I _need_ it.” Nothing ever felt that true, the expectable pain even sounds appealing, not to mention the thought of Andrés' cum dripping out of him.

“But _I_ do care. It will be rather difficult to go into a hospital the next few days so I won't risk doing any damage. Besides, I want to do it right when I'll fuck you for the first time.”

That it is, the offhand remark that there will be a _next time_ makes something go off inside of him, and Martín is sitting in one fast motion, pressed right against Andrés, his wonderful hands trapped between them. “What are you doing,” he growls, throws his arms around Andrés neck and captures his mouth in a kiss. It's sloppy and loud, and he needs more, so he sits up slightly to force Andrés' finger out of him. He clenches around the empty feeling, ignores it, though, and pushes them both down back into a lying position. Andrés laughs in surprise into Martín's mouth who breaks away to place a row of kisses along Andrés jawbone and neck.

Andrés doesn't complain, he places one hand in Martín hair, stroking it gently, and moans when Martín places his mouth on his nipple, sucks on and bites into it. The hand on his head presses him further down, however, when he stays there for a moment, and Martín is more than happy to comply. He swallows Andrés right back down, as deep as before, and this time he can't stop himself from touching his own dick, certain he'll go crazy if he doesn't cum soon.

“You're made for this, aren't you?” Andrés groans, and those words immediately send a shiver down Martín's spine. Andrés seems to be aware of what an effect they have on him because when Martín looks up he finds Andrés staring at him, wide grin on his face. “You're doing so perfect,” he continues and Martín moans and closes his eyes with the hot feeling spreading into every cell of his body.

Andrés laughs at the reaction, not mockingly, though, which is a relieve. “Look at you, sucking my dick like you never did anything else. I should paint you like that, make you sit under my desk when I work, keep my cock nice and warm until I'm ready for you to make me cum.”

Martín moves his hand faster at that, so desperately turned on that he nearly forgets about moving his head as well, only sucking and swallowing messily around Andrés' dick. He doesn't seem to mind, though, the hand on his head is still stroking him, nearly lovingly. “You would like that wouldn't you? Having my cock in your mouth while you're not allowed to touch yourself, waiting for permission.”

The images floating his mind are so perfect and frighteningly close to fantasies he sometimes has while jerking off that he's unable to do more than nod and hum around Andrés cock. “You're doing so good,” he mumbles, thumb caressing Martín's lip, “You're so good for me.”

He cums like that, Andrés' cock down his throat, fisting his own dick, and feeling warm, and safe, and _loved_. His whole body is hit by waves of pleasure, intensity increasing until he's sure he'll black out, and he might have for a second because the next thing he knows is that Andrés' is moving vigorously under him. He seems to have waited for Martín to cum, his hands are holding his face in a merciless grip once again, fucking his dick down his throat even deeper than before. It doesn't last long, five, six thrusts and Andrés is cumming, hot and pulsating down Martín's throat, and if he didn't orgasm just ten seconds ago this would definitely send him over the edge.

He stays there for a moment, sucks lazily on Andrés cock, gets it clean, and then crawls up his body. There is a low voice in his head telling him that he will be kicked out now, but Andrés shuts it up with placing his lips on Martín's. They kiss for seconds or minutes, he doesn't know, when there is suddenly a hand on his shoulder, pulling him down, and blanket is being wrapped around him. “Sleep now, _cariño_ ,” a voice whisper, and Martín is only vaguely aware his head is resting on Andrés chest before he drifts off. 

-

When he wakes up it's due to a rays of sun shining right into his eyes through the window. He is confused because this is definitely not the window in his bedroom, nor is this his bed. It requires five whole seconds and Andrés saying, “Stop worrying,” for Martín to remember what has happened.

“Shouldn't I be the one saying that?” he mumbles and places his hand on the arm Andrés has thrown around him, somewhat confused and rather contented when he realizes that there is a clearly hard dick poking against his ass.

Andrés chuckles and places a kiss on his neck, “What do you think of me? That I run screaming because I had sex?”

“No, because you had sex _with me_ ,” Martín corrects and bites his tongue, scolding himself for trying to talk Andrés into realizing what a mistake last night has been.

“Now, you're panicking again,” Andrés observes and pulls Martín closer until they're pressed together head to toe, “I asked Wislawa to prepare us breakfast last night, it should be ready by now. How does that and getting a new car to bring us to Gdansk and catching a ferry there sound to you?”

Martín rolls around then, comes face to face with Andrés who smiles at him like they always wake up in each other arms. “Maybe we should keep driving, seems to be less of a risk.”

“Don't worry, they lost our track long before we crossed the German boarder, they don't have a clue where we are. Besides, once we're are on the ferry we will have plenty of _time_.” The way he emphazises the last word makes it absolutely clear how he plans on spending this free-time, and while Martín still has no clue how he deserves this he sure as hell won't complain.

“Sounds like a plan,” he agrees and leans in for a kiss. Amazingly, he isn't denied.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel welcome to talk to me on [tumblr](https://staubfinger.tumblr.com) about anything and everything.


End file.
